


Nanakorobi yaoki

by exoskeleton



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2019-12-30 13:19:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18316052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exoskeleton/pseuds/exoskeleton
Summary: "Sakura Fujimoto had always been aware of racism, of the simple fact that the shape of her eyes, the tint of her skin, brought up barriers that announced in big, black, bold letters: DO NOT CROSS." A young Japanese-American woman, the early twentieth century, and how her life is shaped by her ancestry.





	1. Nanakorobi yaoki

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: period typical racism, sexism, language.

**Timeline:** 1906 to 1921, we meet Toshiharu Fujimoto - Sakura Fujimoto's father.

* * *

When he was nineteen, still young and green and slightly sheltered, Toshiharu Fujimoto kowtowed before his beloved okaasan, agreeing to set sail for the Gold Mountain—America, as they called it—to seek his fortune. For there was nothing for him in Nihon, he was told quite frequently of late, and perhaps he’d find something in the gold-paved streets of California.

“ _And when you’re settled_ ,” his okaasan added softly, quietly, still as gentle as ever, “ _send word, and we’ll find a suitable bride for you_.” His okaasan was old and worn yet pride still forced her to keep her spine straight. Or taut, as if in anticipation of another emotional blow. “ _Also, take your younger brother with you—you both will do well_.”

His okaasan, even after every loss she had suffered, still spoke with unwavering certainty. Nothing seemed to unsettle her. Not the memory of a raging husband refusing to give up the life of the samurai. (Toshiharu couldn’t recall the features of his long deceased otosan, but other family members and the few servants working for them still whispered behind shoji screens, still discussed Akihiro’s hatred for the new industrial era and the corrupt officials taking the seats that once belonged to the samurai caste. His otosan must have blazed as brightly as a field fire).

Not the memory of her two eldest sons serving (and dying) in the Nihon-Qing war. (Again, Toshiharu couldn’t recall the features of his long deceased older brothers, his niisans, but other family members and the few servants working for them still whispered behind shoji screens, still discussed how the two young men had echoed their otosan in nearly every manner and perhaps that was the reason why both had found their end on a battlefield so far from home. Their fire, some whispered while others silently agreed, had been snuffed out far too quickly).

So Toshiharu packed his reed suitcase, bought two steamship tickets, offered incense at the nearest temple, bid farewell to everyone he knew—from family to servants, neighbours to monks—and led his brother across the gangplank onto the S.S. China with the certainty his okaasan possessed, his okaasan had instilled in her four children. Thus he left, dry-eyed and wide-eyed, full of expectations and goals (he vowed to send enough money back home so that his beloved okaasan could live with them in America), and at nineteen, he remembered all of a sudden, he was as old as the brother dying in war (and a year older than the other).

With that chilling thought in mind, he and his grinning sibling—Toshiyuki Fujimoto, proud and adventurous—sailed to a new world, both imagining many great things to come.

* * *

The voyage was long, the sea rough, and as Toshiyuki joined the other passengers around a crate to play go (or to gamble), Toshiharu pulled out his English book, then his dictionary, and revised word after word, phrase after phrase, until he dreamt about faceless hakujin giants of America. He was eager, utterly determined.

.

.

.

They arrived in Honolulu soon after midday. Leading a bleary-eyed (and quite possibly hungover) Toshiyuki down the gangplank, Toshiharu departed the harbour and made his way into town, his steady stride slowing into a stroll as he took in the sights, both the familiar (shirtless workers from the East lined up in a yard, a nearby board stating in three languages WORKERS WANTED) and the strange (two laughing hakujin women wearing knee-length skirts, walking in heels that seemed too unpractical).

“ _Let’s find a hostel, older brother_ ,” said a yawning Toshiyuki. His face scrunched up as he looked this way and that, turning in a slow circle on the spot before glancing up at the sky. He stepped back blindly, then turned around with start when he walked into the edge of the sidewalk. His shoulders drooped. “ _I need a wash_.”

“ _Later, we’re not the only new hopefuls._ ” Toshiharu gestured down the street; in the shimmering distance, the rest of the passengers of the S.S. China were making their way inland. “Asaoki wa nanatsu no toku ari.” _Early rising has seven advantages_ , he said.

If Toshiyuki was annoyed, then there was no sign of his displeasure—he had been taught to respect and defer to his niisan. The younger Fujimoto didn’t kick up a fuss at the prospect of plantation work, which was an utter embarrassment, a shame, for their family name, and instead, he joined the queue of workers before sitting down on his haunches, kneading the crown of his head as Toshiharu fetched some water.

Thus the two brothers sat in a companionable silence, sipping from their bamboo bottles as they listened to the gossipmongers and storytellers, waiting patiently to sign a three-year labour contract on a sugar-cane plantation—ten hours a day, six days a week for twelve dollars and fifty cents a month. But it was a start.

.

.

.

For the next three years, the Fujimoto brothers lived frugally. Toshiyuki frequently jested that they were too tired to do anything else, but then he swiftly sobered, whispering (as if he already felt the shame of his confession) that if they had had more money, they could have immediately sailed to the States, thus avoiding the back-breaking work on Hawaii. Toshiharu, in turn, would clap his brother on the shoulder, warmly telling him to not give up just yet.

(Again and again, Toshiyuki would sniff wetly, nod his head and start the next week with a skip in his step; again and again, Toshiharu would wonder if he should have stayed in Nihon so that his younger brother could have disembarked at Seattle, or even San Francisco, instead of Honolulu).

Together, they worked and dreamt and made plans for the future. _We’ll live in the same neighbourhood, send our children to the same schools—they’ll look after each other, see—and we’ll help them get degrees._ They supported each other, laughing and jesting and whispering encouraging words when they were needed the most. _And perhaps, one day, we’ll also have degrees. Imagine, **us** , with an American education! _And the Fujimoto brothers eventually sailed to California.

* * *

.

.

.

(“ _Never give up hope_ ,” okaasan had said, time and time again).

.

.

.

* * *

Toshiharu had heard many things concerning the western nations, and even though he had seen a bit of Honolulu, had went off on walks when he had time, had met a number of the hakujin locals (some had ignored him, one had helped him with his “dreadful” English pronunciation), he couldn’t help being surprised by nearly everything on the mainland. From the different colours of hair—he had seen a hakujin woman with _yellow_ locks, and he had wondered if it somehow felt different—to the way women were treated and how the Americans lived.

Women didn’t have to kneel down before their husbands, didn’t walk behind them but beside them, didn’t cover their mouths when they laughed. Doors had locks, shoes were worn indoors, books were read back to front, noses were blown on dirty cloths that were stuffed back into pockets. It was a strange, alien world, but a determined Toshiharu squared his shoulders and kept trying, despite his confusion and the overwhelming homesickness that started to plague him after three years of absence. (At least there had been some semblance of home on the plantation).

So he learned. To light a stove, to make a bed, to give a firm handshake, to dial a telephone, to set a table. Then, slowly but surely, he started to get used to his strange, alien world—the funny way the locals walked, their tendency to gather in noisy groups and stand talking without respite (why didn’t they sit down?)—and tried his best to blend in. Dressed like them, walked like them, sometimes even avoided them. While some of the Americans would make fun of his pronunciation, others were outright hostile.

And Toshiharu didn’t want any trouble, yet his mere appearance seemed to set something off in others. He worked hard for less pay, doing the tasks no self-respecting American would do, and over time (as the Fujimoto brothers travelled down the coast to San Francisco and then Los Angeles) he learned that the locals just didn’t like that, for some confounding reason. Some (though sometimes it seemed like all) of the hakujin seem to hate seeing _others_ work well. (“Those yellow monkeys are taking our jobs!”)

Most days, Toshiharu had a crick in his neck from keeping his head bowed constantly, a headache pounding behind his eyes from navigating the stressful boundaries of race and class that dominated the Gold Mountain—which, he understood now, only enriched a certain type of man. Not a man like himself or the other immigrants, and said immigrants weren’t always supportive or welcoming of other immigrants. They distrusted him— _the Chinese_ —or immediately hated him— _the Koreans_.

After a while, he had to admit to himself that the rumours had been utterly false: the streets of California weren’t paved in gold, and the Gold Mountain wasn’t an opportunity for everyone, only a select few.

* * *

.

.

.

(“ _Never give up, keep trying_ ,” Toshiharu reminded himself, time and time again).

.

.

.

* * *

The Fujimoto brothers found their little corner, their safe haven and possibly permanent home, in the ethnic enclave of Little Tokyo, Los Angeles. There, they found respite from the complexities of the country and surrounded themselves with home: from music and newspapers to restaurants and bathhouses, even the blooming cherry blossom trees populating the area.

There, they rented a matchbox of an apartment (two small bedrooms, a kitchen, a tiny bathroom), and when the last tattered bag had been unpacked, and everything had been carefully put away, Toshiyuki sat down on the floor, resting his back against the closed front door, then sighed for a long moment before turning to his niisan.

“ _Big brother_ ,” he said firmly, seriously. With his toned arms wrapped around his legs, and the hunch in his back, Toshiyuki looked uncertain yet again; actually, over the last few years, he had been becoming more and more hesitant as the challenges of America slowly chipped away at his pride and diminished his sense of adventure. It all started in Honolulu, with the long days under the blazing sun, and Toshiharu sincerely hoped that the enclave could help his brother find himself again.

To regain that spark of fire.

“ _Big brother, when will you contact a marriage broker?_ ”

Toshiharu brushed a hand down his face.

 _Marriage broker_ , baishakunin, _marriage broker_ , baishakunin, it was all that Toshiyuki seemed to think about nowadays. To have someone make all of the arrangements relating to a wedding, to find a suitable match by looking at the family background, health, ages, wealth, and photographs of the possible candidates.

And Toshiyuki started discussing marriage (quite persistently) the moment they arrived in San Francisco. _Big brother, look at that automobile! We should get one, then sister-in-law won’t need to walk home from the harbour._ (Toshiharu would say, _but we would take the bus_.) _No, no, the bus won’t do!_

 _Big brother, when we get our own place, you should get yourself one of those big American beds._ (A laughing Toshiharu would interject, _but they look too soft!) Eh! Then sister-in-law will be sleeping on clouds! Imagine how happy she’ll be._ Then: _big brother, let’s take this apartment; it’s close to a department store, a grocery store, a market, the library. Hmm, sister-in-law won’t need to walk far._ (And Toshiharu would ask, _so we want her to become fat?_ ) _Big brother!_

Sighing, Toshiharu looked away from his brother, casting his gaze across the room. In a matter of seconds, he had listed everything that still needed to be done: replace a few hinges (two of the cupboard doors couldn’t open properly), recoat the wood with varnish (the cupboards, perhaps the old table that had been left behind by the previous owners), scrub every surface clean (there was a suspicious stain on the far wall).

And eventually, Toshiharu turned to his silent, watchful brother. “ _We should first buy a ticket for mother_ ,” he insisted, and when Toshiyuki raised a hand, he quickly added, “ _We always said that we would send money back, have her live with us._ ” Toshiharu knuckled his eyes, then rolled his shoulders as he stretched his tired body. “ _We will have to move quickly. The government may ban our family from entering the country._ ”

There was already a different ban in place. Two years after the Fujimoto brothers had arrived in Honolulu, America and their homeland had signed the Gentlemen’s Agreement—it cut off the flow of labourers from Nihon, but luckily contained a crucial loophole that permitted the entry of family members of the labourers already residing in America.

The agreement had been a victory for the man in the street (and the man in parliament) who would spit at immigrants, who would burn down productive immigrant farms out of spite, who would place himself above them because of the mere colour of his skin, who would yell at them to return to their countries—even though the man in question still spoke with a noticeable Irish burr.

Toshiyuki nodded. “ _All the more reason for you to get married now?_ ”

“ _Do you want to be rid of me?_ ”

The layers Toshiyuki had been carrying for months now (stress over panic, disappointment across weariness) seemed to flutter weightlessly to the floor as his lips curved into a lopsided smile. His eyes brightened, his back straightened, and then he laughed, not unkindly. “ _No, but I do want you to be happy_.”

 _But I am_.

Head bowed, Toshiharu gnawed on his lower lip, staring unseeingly at the scuffed boards underfoot. He strolled up and down the length of the room, pondering silently, drawing in slow, deep breaths of air. _Keep trying_ , he had frequently reminded himself. Keep moving, and keep working for the possible future.

He nodded. Turned back to Toshiyuki.

“ _Alright._ ” Toshiharu bent over to genially clap his brother on the shoulder. “ _Alright_.” He straightened, and stood arms akimbo, glancing around the room before casting Toshiyuki a sliver of a smile. “ _I’ll write to mother, tell her that I’ve ‘settled’. Send her my photograph._ ”

* * *

Months later, the two brothers left Little Tokyo well before sunrise (both bleary-eyed and yawning), boarded bus after bus (now Toshiharu wondered if he should have bought the automobile Toshiyuki had mentioned repeatedly) before arriving in San Francisco to meet Toshiharu’s bride for the first time. They halted on the sidewalk for a moment, hurriedly neatened their appearance as well as they could, and headed off to the pier to join a crowd of waiting men.

Both Toshiharu and Toshiyuki were silent, the latter squinting up at the blindingly bright sky as he restlessly moved his weight from one leg to the other, the former thinking back on their time in Hawaii. Toshiharu, watching as the picture brides gathered on the deck of their ship, awaiting to disembark, recalled the conversations he had heard on the sugar-cane plantation concerning baishakunins, brides-to-be and black-and-white photographs.

_The marriage broker’s arranging everything. I just have to send my picture. I sent my best friend’s picture instead of my own. I sent one of my old pictures. I asked to use the picture of a handsome stranger. I sent my bride letters—I don’t want to be a complete stranger. I’m not good with words, but I tried my best, and I hope she likes what she reads. I asked my priest to help me compose the letters. I paid a professional to write the letters in my place._

Wearing colourful kimonos, hair done in a rounded coiffure, the women walked down the gangplank, taking mincing steps in their brocaded zori. With photographs in hand, the women anxiously scanned the group of men, and Toshiharu wondered how many of them would be disappointed or even scared after meeting their new husbands for the first time. (Would his own wife, one of the women heading toward the group, be disappointed?)

The new husband might be ten to twenty years older than the young man in the photograph. Might be a complete stranger, not the handsome man in the photograph. Might be the friend of the smiling man in the photograph. But contact was made between picture bride and husband, both parties bowing respectfully as they greeted each other, “Yoroshiku onegai itashi masu.” _I thank you for your future care and concern._

Toshiharu watched nervously as the couples walked away—the women following their men at proper distances—and then Toshiyuki was tapping him on the shoulder, “ _Big brother, big brother, is that sister-in-law?_ ”

Toshiharu swallowed thickly. Followed the direction of his brother’s curious gaze.

Ayumi Ito— _Fujimoto_. His wife.

His wife, he first noticed, was slightly taller than him. As she came closer, face carefully blank as she studied the unfamiliar faces around her, he saw how painfully young she appeared. And that she looked quite green around the gills, clammy and pale and sick, truth be told. When her trembling hand, still clamped around his photograph, closed on the worn material of her kimono, Toshiharu had forgotten his own hesitance and strode quickly to the young woman.

He (and Toshiyuki) probably startled Ayumi as he stormed right up to her, introducing himself (and then his brother) before offering to take her suitcase, like an American gentleman. The offer clearly caused confusion, but Ayumi thanked him and insisted that she could carry her baggage. Then they stood there for a silent, awkward moment.

Toshiharu quietly cleared his throat, gesturing behind him. “ _Shall we go?_ ”

Again, his wife looked confused, but she nodded, hand (and photograph) still pressed to her chest. Toshiharu turned on his heel. He brushed his clammy palms down his stomach, hopefully discreetly, and led the way to the nearest bus stop.

.

.

.

When they returned to Little Tokyo, Ayumi agreed to rest for an hour, and only for an hour, for there was much she wanted to do: clean her clothes, cook their dinner, greet the neighbours, and explore the rest of their enclave. Toshiharu, seeing out of the corner of his eye how she pressed a hand to her lower stomach, let her sleep for two, then three, then— _fifteen_ hours.

As she slept, Toshiyuki left for his evening shift at one of the local groceries, and Toshiharu cleaned Ayumi’s clothes, prepared their dinner, notified the neighbours that his wife was indisposed, stood in the alley outside their apartment to watch as his community went about on their business, pondered about the next few days, attempted to read the Rafu Shimpo (something he hadn’t had time for in weeks), and greeted a returning Toshiyuki who collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table. Over their cooling dinner, the brothers spoke about their plans for the next week and then both retired to bed.

(Toshiharu hesitated for a long moment at the foot of his bed—the big, soft American mattress Toshiyuki had insisted on buying for him—steadily avoiding the image of his slumbering wife (a stranger, _and was this a good idea?_ ) before slipping under the sheets. The night was unusually long).

The next day, Toshiharu took Ayumi to the department store run by an immigrant couple, replacing her kimono with a knee-length dress, her white tabi socks with silk stockings, and her brocaded zori with oxford shoes. Finally, after some consideration, he pinned a hat with a small brim to her hair, tilting it smartly to one side. _How pretty you look!_ one of the customers exclaimed, and Ayumi bowed in thanks.

The next two weeks would echo their third day of marriage, which passed like this:

Toshiharu would go to work early in the morning after having breakfast with his brother and wife. When he returned in the late evening, he would clean his shoes, hang his suit and brush it down, comb his hair before applying a thin layer of pomade, and join his brother in the kitchen. Toshiyuki would wash the punnet of fruit he’d brought back from work, and the brothers would discuss Toshiyuki’s own marriage plans as they nibbled on their snack.

Ayumi, on the other hand, would be silent in the morning as they had their breakfast, would politely greet them when they left for work, would politely greet them when they returned, and would occasionally say a word or two as she prepared their dinner. By the time she went to bed, the dishes would have been washed and put away, the kitchen and the bathroom would have been scrubbed clean, and their lunch for the following day prepared and set aside.

During those two weeks, the three Fujimotos would be overly polite.

They would interact courteously.

Yet, husband and wife were still strangers.

Luckily, a slight change in their routine occurred on a rainy, cold day when Ayumi, slightly damp and shivering, scuttled indoors before promptly slipping in the puddle of water Toshiyuki had brought in with him (and had forgotten to mop up), then cursed like a sailor as she picked up the groceries she had dropped. Seconds later, she abruptly fell silent, eyes flicking up to see her husband and her brother-in-law watching her from the kitchen table.

Toshiyuki blinked, his fork halfway to his lips; a black-and-white photograph of his future wife sat on the table before him. A beat passed in silence, then he quickly spun away, smothering his snorting laugh as Toshiharu ambled over to his wife.

“Gomennasai!” a pink-faced Ayumi whispered in a rush. _I’m sorry!_

But Toshiharu ignored the apology. “ _Let me help you up, wife._ ” He held his hand out to her, waiting patiently for a hesitating Ayumi to sort through her thoughts. When she finally accepted his hand, he gently helped her to her feet, picked up the groceries by himself, and then asked her if she desired a cup of tea. “ _I could prepare a pot for you._ ”

Ayumi nodded jerkily. “ _Thank you …_ ” she swallowed thickly, nervously, “ _husband_.”

Toshiharu smiled.

* * *

Their routine would gradually change over the next few weeks. Toshiharu would tease his wife more, Ayumi would no longer look at him as if he had grown two heads over the course of the night, and Toshiyuki would spend more time away from home to give the couple some space, either posting letters to his picture bride (who was scheduled to arrive in San Francisco in a few months) or sailing down the coast with a fisherman friend.

Husband and wife got to know each other, could eventually anticipate the other’s next move, and spent one day every weekend strolling side-by-side through the park, trading titbits about their families, discussing their childhoods and revealing an innocent secret or two to make the other laugh. Both tried their best to be truthful, to be open and approachable, so Ayumi eventually admitted that their mattress had been too soft, initially, but had grown used to it.

“ _I thought you hated me_ ,” she revealed one night, half-buried under their blankets, watching as her husband placed his watch on their rickety nightstand, “ _I hoped you wouldn’t_.”

Toshiharu lay down beside her. Then: “ _But I don’t_.”

Ayumi studied him in the dim candlelight, lips parting and closing, parting and closing. Her breathing was steady, gentle, yet her eyes shimmered with unvoiced concerns. In the end, she swallowed thickly, brushing aside her qualms as if they hadn’t bothered her.

“ _Let’s build a life here, together?_ ” And he still asked, never demanded. “ _We’ll have our ups and downs, but we’ll keep trying. We’ll never give up hope_.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Ayumi breathed, “ _let’s_.”

Toshiharu studied his wife’s features, taking note of the enticing curve of her lips, the slope of her blushing cheeks, the length of her lashes (sweeping up and down slowly, almost sleepily), the different shades of brown in her hooded eyes. He remembered, then, seeing Ayumi in the crowd, brave and young, and now he remembered, _realized_ actually, that he hadn’t given her a proper greeting when they had first met.

(No wonder she thought he had hated her).

Inhaling slowly, he carefully brushed her hair out of her eyes (she didn’t flinch, didn’t withdraw, only watched him closely), and then whispered, “Yoroshiku onegai itashi masu.” _I thank you for your future care and concern._

* * *

 .

.

.

(“ _This life isn’t so bad_ ,” Toshiharu announced one morning.

Toshiyuki beamed).

.

.

.

* * *

Kenji—his first-born, his son, his pride—came into the world kicking and wailing. Toshiyuki got a daughter, not a son, but Toshiharu quickly told him that it didn’t matter in America. Sakura—his daughter, small and silent—came smiling, _Oh, you!_ And Toshiyuki eventually got his son—three of them.

* * *

“ _You have done well_ ,” his okaasan, even after their long separation, still spoke with unwavering certainty. It was strange to see, as if time had stood still in the East, but the pride in her whispery voice, in her steady gait as she walked through Little Tokyo for the first time, comforted Toshiharu. “ _You both have._ ”

Toshiharu smiled. “ _I’m happy you’re pleased, mother_.”

He would have given her a proper bow, but the package he was cradling against his breast, underneath his slightly worn cardigan, impeded his movement; instead, he nodded his head and pointed out a few locations his okaasan would be interested in exploring, making a quick, sweeping gesture with one hand before wrapping his arms tighter around himself.

When his okaasan disappeared inside the Nishi Hongwanji Buddhist Temple, Toshiharu stepped into the shade of a weeping cherry blossom tree, gently unbuttoned his cardigan, and looked down at his precious cargo.

Sakura, nestling quietly against his chest, yawned widely.

Toshiharu patted his daughter’s back, pressed the back of his hand to her still-feverish brow, before hoisting her up so that her little head rested on his shoulder instead. He paced up and down for a few minutes, listening to the tweeting of birdsong, the tolling of bells, the rumbling of passing automobiles, before crossing the street to sit on a wooden bench that faced the entrance of the Temple.

Sighing, he stared ahead unseeingly, thinking about each and every year that had passed since he had left Nihon. It was strange that he abruptly felt the weight of those years on his shoulders. “ _I’ve just realized_ ,” Toshiharu whispered, “ _that I’ve seen a lot, and done so much._ ” He looked down at his dozing daughter. “ _And I never gave up. Perhaps my mother had been with me all this time … constantly whispering, ‘never give up hope’—_ nanakorobi yaoki _._ ”

But Sakura wasn’t listening, and Toshiharu hummed softly as he smiled.

He patted her back again, cradling her tighter and tighter against his chest until she squirmed, and he reluctantly loosened his grip on her. Toshiharu brushed her hair aside, then pressed a fleeting kiss on the tip of her nose. “Fall seven times,” he said in English, sitting upright as his okaasan emerged from the Temple, walking slowly, carefully, down the steps before standing in the shade of the cherry blossom tree, “and stand up eight.”

His okaasan watched him, head tilted slightly to one side, her hands clasped in front of her as falling cherry blossoms kissed her shoulders. A gentle smile curved her lips, and Toshiharu felt his eyes prickle with unbidden tears. He looked down at his cargo once again, gently rocking Sakura from side to side. He sighed contentedly.

“ _Sakura?_ ” His daughter looked up, eyes blinking slowly. _Yes, papa?_ they said. “ _See where your grandmother’s standing? That tree outside the Temple?_ ” Toshiharu spoke carefully, because for a long while he had only conversed in the Americans’ language; for he wished that his children would at least know his mother tongue. His last link to Nihon. “ _The cherry blossom trees were named after you._ Sakura.”

Sakura blinked owlishly. “Honto desu ka?” _Is that so?_

 _No._ Toshiharu chuckled. “ _Yes_.”

With that, he hurried across the street, and watched the sheer look of wonder on his daughter’s face. His okaasan met him at the edge of the sidewalk, and this time, he bowed respectfully to the woman who had taught him so much, who had always wanted _more_ for him and his brother, who had never collapsed under pressure.

He hoped, as he hugged Sakura tightly in his arms, that he could teach his own daughter to be as strong, proud, and self-assured as his okaasan. But first, he’d teach her the one thing that had helped him survive the setbacks life had continuously thrown at him: _nanakorobi yaoki_.

* * *

* _Nanakorobi yaoki,_ fall seven times and stand up eight – a Japanese proverb. When life knocks you down, stand back up; keep trying; never give up hope.

* _Toshiharu_ – genius peace.

* _Fujimoto_ – (one who lives) under the wisteria.

* _okaasan_ – mother.

* _Gold Mountain_ ( _Gam Saan_ ) – the name given by the Chinese to western regions of North America, particularly California, USA and British Columbia, Canada. After gold was found in the Sierra Nevada in 1848, thousands of Chinese began to travel to California in search of gold and riches during the California Gold Rush.

* _Nihon_ – Japan.

* _samurai_ – warrior. A member of a powerful military caste in feudal Japan, especially a member of the class of military retainers of the daimyos (rulers/warlords).

* _otosan_ – father.

* _shoji_ – a door, window or room divider consisting of translucent paper over a frame of wood which holds together a lattice of wood or bamboo. The doors are often designed to slide open, and thus conserve space that would be required by a swinging door.

* _Akihiro_ – large glory.

* _Nihon-Qing_ (Japan-Qing) _war_ – the First Sino-Japanese War (1 August 1894 – 17 April 1895) was fought between Qing Dynasty China and Meiji Japan, primarily over control of Korea. After more than six months of unbroken successes by the Japanese land and naval forces, as well as the loss of the Chinese port of Weihai, the Qing leadership sued for peace in February 1895. The war is commonly known in China as the War of Jiawu, referring to the year (1894) as named under the traditional sexagenary system of years. In Japan, it is called the Japan–Qing War; and in Korea, where much of the war took place, it is called the Qing-Japan War.

* _Qing_ – the Qing dynasty was the last imperial dynasty of China, ruling from 1644 to 1911 with a brief, abortive restoration in 1917. It was preceded by the Ming dynasty and succeeded by the Republic of China.

* _niisan_ – older brother.

* _Toshiyuki –_ clever and happy.

* _go_ – ancient Chinese board game.

* _hakujin_ – white person.

* _Asaoki wa nanatsu no toku ari_ , early rising has seven advantages – a Japanese proverb. The early bird catches the worm; early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.

* _baishakunin_ – a marriage broker/matchmaker/go-between.

* _the Gentlemen’s Agreement_ – an informal agreement between the United States and the Empire of Japan (1908) whereby the United States of America would not impose restriction on Japanese immigration, and Japan would not allow further emigration to the U.S.

* _picture brides_ – the practice in the early 20th century of immigrant workers (chiefly Japanese and Korean) in Hawaii and the West Coast of the United States selecting brides from their native countries via a matchmaker, who paired bride and groom using only photographs and family recommendations of the possible candidates. This is an abbreviated form of the traditional matchmaking process, and is similar in a number of ways to the concept of the mail-order bride.

* _kimono_ – T-shaped, straight-lined robes worn so that the hem falls to the ankle, with attached collars and long, wide sleeves. Kimono are wrapped around the body, always with the left side over the right and secured by a sash called an obi, which is tied at the back.

* _zori_ – flat and thonged Japanese sandals made of rice straw or other plant fibers, cloth, lacquered wood, leather, rubber, or—increasingly—synthetic materials.

* _Yoroshiku onegai itashi masu_ – the definition is hard to translate in the English language. There are different ways that _yoroshiku onegai itashi masu_ is used, as well, depending on the situation. It’s a very important part of Japanese culture, and is somewhat equivalent to “I'm depending on you”.

* _Ayumi_ – pace, stroll, walk.

* _Ito_ – thread, yarn, string.

* _The Rafu Shimpo_ – a Japanese-English language newspaper based in Little Tokyo, Los Angeles. The paper began in 1903 as a one-page, mimeographed Japanese-language newspaper produced by Rippo Iijima, Masaharu Yamaguchi, and Seijiro Shibuya.

* _tabi_ – traditional Japanese socks. Ankle-high and with a separation between the big toe and other toes, they are worn by both men and women with zori, geta, and other traditional thonged footwear.

*  _Kenji –_ intelligent, second son; strong and vigorous.

*  _Sakura_ – cherry blossom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can you expect? Sakura's childhood (Little Tokyo), her family (parents, brother, grandmother, uncle, aunt, cousins), her education (high school, nursing school, etc), the Depression (unemployment), pre-Pearl Harbor (which is exciting in my head, but on paper? We'll see), post-Pearl Harbor (the consequences), the internment (I have so much on that portion of the story, I could probably write the internment chapters now), and Other Stuff. So, it will take a while before we actually meet Easy Company.


	2. Karite Kita Neko no Yoo

**Timeline:** 1906, Toshiharu and Toshiyuki (the Fujimoto brothers) leave Japan, eventually disembarking at Honolulu, Hawaii. 1906 – 1909, the Fujimoto brothers work on a sugar-cane plantation, then head to Seattle. They travel down the coast. 1912, the Fujimoto brothers decide to settle down in Little Tokyo, Los Angeles. 1913, Ayumi Ito arrives in San Francisco. The Fujimoto family expands.

* * *

As long as (little, five-year-old) Sakura could remember (even in those hazy, fleeting memories where she never walked but crawled, or flailed around on the wooden floor— _Toshiharu always murmured, **teased** , that she would eventually walk more than everyone else in their family_), her okaasan, her dear mother, had been fiercely independent.

Ayumi had been one of the few women in their enclave to own and drive an automobile, a Ford Model T. She would expertly open the doors and then help Sakura climb onto the passenger seat before placing her slightly worn black bag (which went with okaasan nearly everywhere, which smelled like Lysol— _“For disinfecting,” okaasan would inform her daughter, even though the question hadn’t been voiced, only hovering innocently in two curious eyes_ —and contained items like a stethoscope and a smock okaasan would wear over her clothes) on the floor before driving off to a client’s house.

(The drive followed a particular pattern and rarely ventured off-course: okaasan would watch the road with utmost care, eying the pedestrians as well as the handful of drivers in front of her; okaasan would point out this shop (“ _oh, the Hosokawa’s are painting their storefront—look, Sakura-chan._ ”) or that street (“ _I took a wrong turn last time—remember, Sakura-chan? Let’s see …_ ”) before reaching over to take her daughter’s chin between her thumb and forefinger. Which always prompted little Sakura to duck her head and beam at her lap).

Once at their destination—always a home occupied with loitering, anxious women—Sakura would find herself alone in either the kitchen or the living area, perched on a stool or on a zabuton, and Ayumi would soon head down the corridor, then disappear inside a bedroom, the door closing quietly behind her. For a long while, said home would be quiet— _nearly_ quiet—except for the muffled words occasionally spoken down the corridor.

And Sakura would wait, staring at nothing for a long while before looking at everything: the table (even the chairs), the radio (they had a smaller one at home, small but all-important, and it was constantly on), the washed dishes (which reminded her of their hasty breakfast, and that made her press a hand against her growling stomach), and then a few sheets of paper, an inkstone, an inkstick, and a brush that had been left on the table.

And Sakura would snatch the paper, and draw incomprehensible shapes, the tip of her tongue peeking out from between her lips as she concentrated on her artwork. Eventually, she would hum quietly, first a familiar tune her niisan, her brother, had been whistling nonstop for the last few days, then repeating a few words she had heard on the radio, even though their meaning still escaped her.

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As long as (little, five-year-old) Sakura could remember (even in those hazy, fleeting memories where she had been caught between waking and slumber, opening one eyelid before rolling over— _Toshiharu always murmured, exasperatedly, **fondly** , that she fell asleep so easily, like a cat_), her okaasan had been a hard worker.

Ayumi worked for quite a few hours every day, and those hours—the time that Sakura spent waiting on her—always, _always_ made Sakura lethargic. Once again, Sakura fell into a light sleep where she was drawing, ink staining her little fingers, her left cheek and her brow, half-conscious of the beehive of activity whizzing all around her. Half-aware of the soft glow of lights, of her okaasan emerging from the bedroom, wearing her smock (now bloodied on the front) and a cloth wrapped around her head to keep her hair back.

Sakura watched with one eye open, her own breathing loud in her ears. Slowly, that one dazed eye slid shut, and phrases she had heard before during different visits in different homes were mentioned; about jintsu, _battle-pain_ , and gaman suru—that the woman had endured well, that she had had the strength to control herself and tolerate the pain of childbirth.

With a sleepy snort, which made her cough, Sakura pulled herself up, then removed the sheet of paper that had glued itself to her cheek. Artwork in one hand, she slipped off her stool and scuttled over to the corridor, eyes trained on her ink-stained fingers. A moment later, she sucked on her index finger (promptly recoiling from the taste) just as her okaasan slipped out of her smock.

And Sakura waited, following okaasan up and down the house; and waited, sleepily watching as okaasan washed and then swaddled a flailing newborn; and waited, leaning listlessly, dangerously to one side, almost in okaasan’s lap, as okaasan wrote in a book (one of the many items she lugged along in her black bag); and then she was asleep once more.

Time passed.

Then, she could hear her okaasan whispering, confessing: “ _I shouldn’t be taking you with, Sakura-chan_. _The wait is long for you._ ” The world was shuddering and shaking and there were many noises all around them. _They were in the automobile_ , Sakura thought, and she opened her eyes briefly, just long enough to see her okaasan behind the wheel, still talking to Sakura about … about their day. “ _But you’ll probably throw another tantrum_.” Abrupt, stifled laughter. “ _You surprised me, then—us, you surprised **us**. But it’s alright—I don’t want to leave you either._” A sigh. “ _I remember when you were born. Like it was yesterday._ ”

Sakura wriggled slightly across the leather upholstery, and she must have nearly rolled off the seat because a hand cupped her rear and gently pushed her back. The automobile rumbled, idling, and then pulled away as the pitter-patter of rain began to fall against the windscreen. For a while, there was only the steady drum of raindrops against glass and the in-out of her own breathing.

Until okaasan began to sing.

“Hato poppo. Hato poppo,” she sang, slightly high-pitched, “Omame o yaru kara. Tonde koi.” _Come pigeons, come. I will give some beans, so come flying to me_. And Sakura joined in, with a barely-there whisper, the words slurring together until she was muttering incomprehensibly under her breath.

Gently, Sakura fell into the cradle of slumber once more.

* * *

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( _Sakura spent most of her time with her mother, but occasionally, she would find herself in someone else’s company_. _Specifically, her brother._ )

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* * *

Midmorning the next day, the beclouded heavens rumbled and wept faint drizzle, a remnant of the night’s rainstorm. The street was slippery—(“ _Be careful!_ ” Kenji would call out, even as he threw out his arms to keep his balance)—but Sakura paid it no mind—(“ _Are you listening?_ ” Kenji would ask, bending over here, there, everywhere as he inspected this and that)—and made a beeline for the nearest puddle.

Sakura, in a clear imitation of her niisan—who was still inspecting his surroundings, as he was wont to do—bent over slightly and studied the muddy puddle of water. The wind moaned, sending leaves scattering out from their hideaway under the front porch. After remaining motionless for a long moment, Sakura placed a bare foot in the puddle, then the other, and jumped. And before long, the older of the duo had joined the younger one and splashed and puttered around and laughed breathlessly, blissfully unaware (or purposely ignoring, perhaps) of the weather.

Sakura looked up as she breathed in deeply, savouring the smell of the rain, and promptly noticed a familiar truck heading down their quiet street. Without missing a beat, she turned and ran for the front door of the Fujimoto home (a small, standalone little dwelling), a second pair of bare feet running behind her. At the front porch, Sakura paused for a moment, then Kenji wrapped his arms around her, transferring her to the porch, a process that was now quite automatic for the young pair.

Inside, the radio was on, and broadcasted a slow tune that (still) meant nothing to little Sakura, but for older men and women, it spoke of romance, of giddiness and love. Inside, a smartly dressed man (carefully styled hair and moustache, a watch tucked into the pocket of a waistcoat) and a smartly dressed woman (carefully styled hair, a squirt of perfume on the wrists) stood close together, arms wrapped around each other. The woman was slightly taller than the man.

“Tochan.” _Daddy_ , she mumbled, and Toshiharu immediately (he always promptly turned to her, to Kenji, giving them his undivided attention) glanced her way. “Ojisan.” _Uncle_ , was the only word she had to say, and then otosan, her father, was heading outside. “Kaachan.” _Mommy_ , she mumbled at her mother, just because she could.

Ayumi smiled, smoothing a hand across her slightly dishevelled updo, and returned to the kitchen as Sakura excitedly hurried after her father. Whistling, Kenji strolled after them, his hands clasped behind his head.

Outside, a grinning man shut the door to his truck with a controlled slam, then strode (arms swinging) up to Toshiharu, who greeted ojisan with a smile and a clap on his shoulder. The adults promptly discussed adult topics, and Kenji—sensitive, occasionally grumpy Kenji who was always the umpire when he and his cousins had their baseball matches—listened and nodded and then pulled Sakura back to his side when she started tiptoeing away from the group.

Sakura—quiet, silently expressive Sakura who always wondered on the outskirts during gatherings—pouted and sent a yearning glance in the direction of her ojisan’s truck, that dusty and noisy beast of a machine (it had taken her a while to come to terms with the fact that _it wouldn’t hurt her at all!_ ) that always carried a load of deliveries for her family.

Some family members refused to share—the other day, okaasan complained about the American children stories, saying that they taught selfishness—but her ojisan, who worked as a tenant farmer on hakujin lands, was always delivering food to them, either politely enquiring, “ _Can you use these_ …?” or merely announcing, as he pulled out a box, “Hatsu mono.” _First of the season._

And he always popped by on a Friday, always looking a bit dishevelled. Sometimes, he would wear a neat shirt; sometimes, when it was a bit too hot, a bit too humid, he would wear a tank top. But always, _always_ , he had a kama between his belt and pants.

And when ojisan arrived, Sakura would hop from one foot to the other, her eyes flicking from the kama to the truck, from the truck to her otosan, and from her otosan to Kenji, who would plant his hands onto her shoulders, push her closer to their ojisan, and politely ask if they could transfer the delivery from the truck to the kitchen.

Inside, okaasan was waiting for them, apron already tied around her waist, and she greeted ojisan warmly, and she instructed Kenji to put the seaweed on the counter, and she brushed a hand down Sakura’s back, thanking her for bringing in the bag of tomatoes for them.

Then, the kitchen was buzzing with activity.

Okaasan, preparing rice balls with red umeboshi. Otosan, washing the nappa cabbage and carrots, bobbed his head and smiled as ojisan—who had been in the process of inspecting the white radishes but was now waving one of the vegetables like a baton—informed the family of all the happenings of the last few weeks. Kenji, hovering by Ayumi’s side, listened with rapt attention to the (tall) tales that were being discussed (and dismissed in disbelief).

In the background, Sakura gave the rest of the delivery—wild spinach, wild mustard, tea leaves, so on and so forth—her undivided attention, tugging at a rice sack (it refused to move) and then poking at a crate (the topmost melon rolled precariously). She wringed her hands, plucked an apple from a bushel, and then glanced over her shoulder.

Laughter erupted as ojisan pointed a radish at otosan.

Loudly, Sakura took a hearty bite out of the apple.

* * *

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( _Sakura loved her brother, but she_ _always eagerly returned to her mother’s side_.)

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* * *

As long as (little, five-year-old) Sakura could remember (even in those hazy, fleeting memories where she covered paper after paper after paper with drawings— _Toshiharu always said that she had a wonderful imagination, and that meant that she would have a wonderful dream— **goal** —for her life_), her okaasan had been constantly doing something, anything, in the kitchen. Actually, all around the house.

Ayumi would, some days, sit at the dining table long after Sakura and Kenji had been tucked into bed, weaving zori from rice straw (something she did because it reminded her of Nihon); or chopping root vegetables for the next day’s pot of umani; or mending a shirt or skirt that had been recently torn. And would, some days, fall asleep in the kitchen.

Which always, _always_ , made otosan grit his teeth when he found her there in the morning. But then he would always, _always_ , gently wake her up and ask her to _go to bed,_ _please_. A request that she didn’t always obey, because she had to help prepare breakfast; because breakfast—like nearly every other meal, with them—was a family event.

So, when that happened—her falling asleep in the kitchen, him finding her there in the morning—Ayumi would ignore Toshiharu’s request for her to return to bed, turn to a yawning Sakura and a hovering Kenji, and then point out, “O-te-te.” _Little hands_. A simple instruction that made brother and sister turn to the basin to wash their hands.

But after breakfast, father and son would head off, the former to school, the latter to work; then, mother and daughter were alone. Alone, but together: together for lunch, and together for afternoon tea.

Most of the time, they would remain in the kitchen.

Sakura would either draw or play under the table. Ayumi would wash what needed to be washed or prepare meals or—simply focus on anything and everything that needed to be done; and as she worked, she would speak about trivialities (little titbits that Sakura didn’t quite listen to) or fairy tales (wonderful fantasies that Sakura certainly did listen to).

(The tale of the Peach Boy, Momotaro, always earned a reaction from Sakura. Even though it concerned demons and the destruction they were causing in the world, which—Ayumi believed—couldn’t be suitable material for her little girl, the mother in question never hesitated to recite the story for her family.)

Then, sometime after lunch, Kenji would run through the front door, speaking nonstop about his school day. Much later, Toshiharu would stride through the front door, squeezing his wife’s hand as he handed over a bushel of fruit. The sun would slowly set, and then the family would eat dinner (of course, Sakura sat beside her okaasan), and then the family would gather around the radio (of course, Sakura sat on her okaasan’s lap).

Some days were eerily similar, other days differed here and there, because of illness, because of an important meeting at work, because Toshiyuki and his family popped by for a get-together. But there was a routine, and it was familiar, and for Sakura, it revolved around her dear okaasan.

After listening to the radio show, Kenji would disappear into his room, but that night he exclaimed that he needed to _finish homework, goodnight!_ And then Toshiharu would disappear into his cramped office, but that night he announced that he needed to _finish some reading, goodnight!_ _(Come to bed soon, wife.)_

That night, mother and daughter chose to sit in the bathtub (the former scrubbing the latter’s back) for a long while, and then they tidied the bathroom (the former tossing towels into a hamper as the latter watched from the doorway). By the time that Sakura was in bed, she was knuckling at her eyes and yawning, once, twice, thrice.

That night, Ayumi leaned over and tugged at the blankets, pulling them over Sakura’s shoulders and then smoothing them out. Satisfied, she sat down on the edge of the bed, and simply watched Sakura, who stared at her with heavy-lidded eyes.

“Karite Kita Neko no Yoo,” okaasan whispered, then reached out to caress Sakura’s cheek. _Like a borrowed cat_ , she said. “Oyasumi na sai.” _Rest well_. But when Sakura continued to watch her, eyes blinking blearily, Ayumi whispered, a little firmly, “Onen-ne.” _Go to sleep_.

Perhaps, somehow, magic had been interlaced with those words, for Sakura closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, immediately on the cusp of slumber. (But there was no magic in the world, and an older Sakura would realise that there was only grim reality.) Or perhaps, it was the hand on her cheek that somehow, _somehow_ , helped her mind to simply _stop thinking_.

That night, Sakura breathed in slowly, and out slowly. That night, she was faintly aware of the weight leaving the edge of her bed, of the door closing shut. Her little hand snaked out from under the blanket, and grasped at air. At nothing. Nothing, because okaasan was gone.

* * *

* _Karite Kita Neko no Yoo_ – like a borrowed cat, a Japanese proverb. As shy and quiet as a kitten.

 _* zabuton_ – a Japanese cushion for sitting. It’s generally used when sitting on the floor and may also be used when sitting on a chair.

* -chan – a honorific used to refer to children and female family members, close friends and lovers; a kind of “baby talk” in Japanese.

* _inkstone_ – a stone mortar for the grinding and containment of ink.

* _inkstick_ – a type of solid ink used traditionally in several East Asian cultures for calligraphy and brush painting. Inksticks are made mainly of soot and animal glue, sometimes with incense or medicinal scents added. To make ink from the inkstick, it has to be continuously ground against an inkstone with a small quantity of water to produce a dark liquid which is then applied with an ink brush.

* _jintsu_ \- labor pain/ _childbirth_ pain/pain in the battle room.

* _gaman suru_ – endurance/ability to endure. “Issei [first generation, the Japanese immigrant] women, believed in the Japanese cultural tradition that women should endure the pain of childbirth in silence. Japanese immigrant women felt that they responded to the pain of labour and delivery in a more honourable fashion than American women, who would cry out. When Issei women gave birth, they were expected to persevere and bear up under the pain.”

* _Hato poppo. Hato poppo. Omame o yaru kara. Tonde koi_. Come pigeons, come. I will give some beans, so come flying to me.

* _tochan_ – daddy.

* _kaachan_ – mommy.

* Hatsu mono – first of the season.

* _ojisan_ – uncle.

* _kama_ – a traditional Japanese farming implement similar to a sickle used for reaping crops and also employed as a weapon. It is often included in weapon training segments of martial arts.

* _umeboshi_ – pickled plums.

* _umani_ – root vegetable and chicken stew.

* _Momotaro_ – a popular hero of Japanese folklore originating from Okayama Prefecture. His name translates as Peach Taro, a common Japanese masculine name, and is often translated as Peach Boy. “He came to Earth inside a giant peach which was found floating down a river, by an old, childless woman who was washing clothes there. The woman and her husband discovered the child when they tried to open the peach to eat it. The child explained that he had been sent by Heaven to be their son. The couple named him Momotaro, from momo (peach) and taro (eldest son in the family). He goes on a journey to defeat demons.”

 _* Oyasumi na sai_. Rest well or good night.

* _Onen-ne_. Go to sleep. Bed-time (for a baby).


	3. Imo [no Ko] o Arau Yoo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The childhood era builds the foundation, but also foreshadows future events; events that take place in the middle, and events that take place closer to the end.

**Timeline:** 1913, Ayumi Fujimoto (nee Ito) arrives in San Francisco. The Fujimoto family expands: 1914, Kenji’s born. 1915, Toshiyuki's daughter is born. 1916, Sakura’s born. 1917, Toshiyuki's son is born.  1919, Toshiyuki's second son is born. 1920, Toshiyuki's third son is born. 1921, Toshiharu and Toshiyuki’s mother arrives.

* * *

Friday, the day when Toshiyuki popped by to deliver vegetables, the man arriving and leaving in a whirlwind of activity. Friday, the day that Kenji restlessly waited for when the school week started once again, because it meant no teachers, no rules, no reading. (It meant he could umpire as many games as he could—the young boy was quickly earning a reputation as well as a nickname in the enclave. But the nickname? Well, it was Umpire, of course!) Friday, the day when Little Tokyo abruptly changed from a gentle, sometimes sleepy, buzz of activity to resemble, well, the sea.

Friday (in this case, the last Friday of the month) was the day when the farming families came to town to shop, to visit, and (in this case, the younger members) to go out with their urban cousins to the Fuji Theatre where they could follow the exploits of cowboy heroes. It meant that the enclave was busier than usual. Meant that the usual buzz of activity was now a confounding din of sounds and smells and many a child got lost in the crowd, helplessly pulled away from kith and kin like a struggling swimmer being pulled out to sea.

It was a Friday afternoon, hours after the schools had closed, so that meant that the Fujimoto family (like many other families) was visiting the local park. Enjoying a picnic (organized by Ayumi and her sister-in-law), enjoying the meal (prepared by Toshiyuki who still, after all this time, liked to try new recipes), and enjoying their conversation about the children’s experiences at school (noting the differences between the larger urban school Kenji attended, and the smaller one Toshiyuki’s daughter went to.)

It was then that Sakura was told she was starting school soon, and that day, she threw another rare tantrum that made quite a few eyebrows arch up, up, up. (The umbrella-wielding old woman, who had been introduced to Sakura a few months ago— _“Sakura-chan, this is your grandmother, please greet her.”_ —who had been living with said girl’s uncle since arriving in the country, watched the unfolding drama over the rim of her teacup. Rei Fujimoto, the wife of a long-deceased samurai, the mother of four sons, didn’t say a word. But she didn’t have to. The look in her eye communicated her displeasure.) Who knew that little, shy Sakura, someone as meek as a kitten, could scream _like that_?

That day, on a Friday, when Sakura was still five years old—when her world came crashing down around her because she could no longer spend every waking moment with her okaasan—she found out that her otosan held the supreme position in their family. (Later, she would realise that every otosan in the Japanese immigrant family had that position.) He was the oldest son, and everyone, even his own okaasan—Sakura’s obaachan—had to listen to him.

Toshiharu Fujimoto was a good man. He worked hard, listened to his wife, indulged his son, and teased his daughter. He was constantly reading (he enjoyed translating British literature), listening to the radio, and making sure that he was up to date with the state of his motherland. (“ _Japan_ ,” he had told Sakura, _“has frequent earthquakes_.”) He was a calm man who had laugh lines etched around his eyes—Sakura was always poking at the folds of skin, _poke, poke, poke-poke._

But when he lost his temper, he _lost it._

That day, on a Friday, Toshiharu shouted.

He commanded Sakura to stop. _At once!_

And Sakura did.

But she also ran.

Right into the heart of Little Tokyo.

Most days, the enclave was a thrilling kaleidoscope of colours. Of voices. People, here and there. But that day, the community was an incomprehensible whirlwind of signs—bookstores, newspapers, tofu shops, department stores—and of smells—bowls of steaming chop suey, small rounds of manju. Then, there was the press of limbs and the stomping of feet—Sakura squealed when a heel dropped down on her foot, but the throbbing pain was swiftly overshadowed when an elbow came out of nowhere and struck her on her head.

Ayumi had always said that during peak hours, Little Tokyo was like washing a bucketful of potatoes. So crowded that they could hardly turn around. But Ayumi would say the same about their own home when Toshiyuki and his family visited for the weekend, and then every room and bathroom and chair would be occupied.

But there was a difference between a busy (somewhat unfamiliar) Little Tokyo and a busy (familiar) home.

One moment, Sakura was seething, clenching her fists.

Seconds later, she clutched her head as she turned this way and that, anxiously looking for a familiar face—otosan, okaasan, even niisan! With watery eyes, she looked from one strange face to the next, but she was too small. No one seemed to notice her. No one seemed to care. Sakura breathed in, opened her lips to say something, to ask for help, but then her heart was in her throat, robbing her of her ability to speak. A strangled breath of air whooshed from her lips.

It was on a Friday that Sakura threw a tantrum.

And then experienced what it was like to be lost in a sea of people.

To be there but to be invisible. Meaningless. Worthless.

Voiceless.

But it also made her aware of something else, something important. Something—or rather _someone_ —she rarely focused on. This person, this _someone_ , slithered his way through the crowd, shoving aside arm after arm as he craned his neck, eyes flicking to and fro. This person, normally the centre of attention ( _happily_ the centre of attention unlike Sakura), was only thinking of her. Only concentrating on her.

And when Kenji appeared at his sister’s side like an unexpected wraith, he looked down his nose at her. Crossed his arms, and then announced that she was too young to go off by herself, that she couldn’t run away again—why, he would sit on her and _make her feel real sorry, indeed!_

He grabbed her hand.

Was his hand that clammy? Or was it hers?

“… _making everyone worry_ ,” Kenji muttered under his breath, then added, as though it personally offended him, “ _can only count your age with one hand_.”

“Onii-chan …” _Big brother_ , she mumbled, but big brother was dragging her through the crowd, dragging her down the street, dragging her past their obaachan (who was using her umbrella as a walking stick), and depositing her in their otosan’s arms. Sakura breathed in deeply (otosan always smelled of soap), accepted his admonishments (“ _Never run off again!_ ”), and glanced at Kenji out of the corner of her eye.

Little Sakura wasn’t aware of this, but on that Friday, a Friday that should have been as relaxing as any other Friday, a seed sprouted. It would quickly grow roots, threading itself into the very essence of her being. It was a small thing, it didn’t mean much to her at that moment, but older Sakura would look back at that Friday and know: _this, **this** moment made two siblings who were living two very different lives care for each other, watch out for each other, and listen to each other._

* * *

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( _Sakura would only realise years **and years** later how her obaachan had changed the intricate bonds between her children and grandchildren. She would only realise years **and** **years** later that obaachan was a master puppeteer._)

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* * *

There was one room in the house that Sakura (and even Kenji) avoided. Oh, they could wonder around in the room, glance at the old newspapers and letters, but they knew that space was their otosan’s office. They all had their own space—Ayumi had a little table in the bedroom she shared with Toshiharu—but the office became off-limits when Toshiharu entered the room and then shut the door behind him.

Sometimes, he would close the door because he had to finish writing a report. Sometimes, he would be entertaining a friend—most of the time said friend would be John Lazo, a friendly man who worked for the Santa Fe Railroad, painted houses, and always stooped down to give Sakura some candy. (Most family friends were entertained in the front of the house, but because John lived further away, he couldn’t visit as frequently as he could. When John could visit, Toshiharu would spirit him away to his office so that he could have John’s undivided attention.) Sometimes, he simply needed some peace and quiet.

But of course, Toshiharu wasn’t at home all the time, and that meant the rest of the family could use the desk (Ayumi would sit there when she wanted to doublecheck their finances), take a book from the shelf (Kenji never liked to sit still for too long, but books? Books could always capture his attention) or sit in one of the over-stuffed armchairs (Sakura was frequently found dozing in one of said armchairs.) That was their routine.

However, their routine had been changing, all because of one person: obaachan.

For as long as Sakura could remember, Rei Fujimoto had existed in letters and in crinkled photos. Had existed in bedtime stories and in outlandish tales that Toshiyuki loved to tell. (A woman of her age couldn’t have killed a shark with her bare hands!) The oldest Fujimoto hadn’t been _there_ , so she hadn’t been real; and Sakura had believed that up until the day she and Kenji and her cousins and the rest of the family had met obaachan in the harbour.

It had been such a formal event, with a considerable amount of bowing, that Sakura hadn’t known what to do.

Because Toshiyuki was smiling, but it wasn’t the same. (His smile was noticeably subdued.) Ayumi and her sister-in-law were standing to the side, behind their husbands. (They always, _always_ , stood beside them.) Two of her cousins kept looking at each other, shuffling their feet, and pursing their lips. (They had been ordered to be on their best behaviour.) Kenji kept brushing the palm of his hand across his coifed hair. (Normally, his hair was a natural disaster, pointing in all directions.)

And Sakura? Sakura hadn’t been able to move, bodies pressed against her to her left, to her right. Once again, it was like washing a bucketful of potatoes. So crowded that they could hardly turn around.

She had expected them to leave soon, since they were never at the harbour for long—they only went there for important business, important shopping, and then they would return home. But the Fujimoto family remained in the harbour for hours, the chilly breeze ruffling Sakura’s carefully styled hair.

(The next day, she would be confined to bed, shivering and sneezing and feeling oh so terribly warm.)

That feeling of being crushed, of being unable to go where she wanted to, followed her home. Because from thereon, their little home wasn’t just theirs—it was also obaachan’s, when she came visiting every month, and it was also Toshiyuki’s, because he and his family would tag along. And so, their home became crowded.

(That feeling of being crushed, of being unable to go where she wanted to, vexed little Sakura. But as time would pass, she would get used to having more family around, used to bumping into and nearly tripping over the extra limbs. Eventually, it would feel strange to move around freely.)

Their routine changed, and Rei Fujimoto was initially the old woman with the ever-present lacquered umbrella, speaking about faceless people left behind in Nihon, instructing Ayumi how prepare a certain dish—even though Ayumi had ample experience with said dish. Then, as time passed, obaachan’s role in Sakura’s life changed: she was now the old woman with the ever-present lacquered umbrella, seating herself at Toshiharu’s desk and instructing both Sakura and Kenji on their calligraphy.

She was now the old woman with the ever-present lacquered umbrella, seeking to instil a sense of oyakoto—filial piety—in her grandchildren. Who was impressed with Kenji’s seriousness, murmuring under her breath, “Yoh-yaru na.” _You surely do well._ (Even at five, Sakura wanted to bark out that _that_ wasn’t _her niisan_ , that he was just _playing_ , but Kenji always seemed to know when she wanted to speak out of turn, discretely pinching her side.) Who would always stress what was expected from Kenji, as the first-born son, and from Sakura, the daughter.

To Sakura, obaachan would say: “ _When a woman is young, she obeys her father. When she is married, she obeys her husband. When she is widowed, she obeys her son._ ” But Sakura would never respond—she only listened, tracing doodles into her skin with her fingertip—and the elder Fujimoto did the one thing that made the little siblings sit up with a start, eyes widening and hearts racing.

The loud _thwak!_ of the umbrella hitting the surface of otosan’s desk was as sudden and as disturbing as lightning zipping down through the midnight sky. That umbrella wasn’t a shield from a storm. No, it was an extension of obaachan’s right hand, forever and always. And the elder Fujimoto knew how to wield the umbrella: she used it as a walking stick, used it in place of her index finger, and used it to move people out of her way when she was walking down the street.

In the end, little Sakura feared the umbrella more than its owner.

* * *

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( _Sakura would only realise years **and years** later that her obaachan had her own way of loving and caring for someone. She would only realise years **and** **years** later that, even though obaachan was a master puppeteer … Rei did love her_.)

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* * *

It was a Friday, an ordinary Friday in Sakura’s first year of kindergarten, but it was the day when Toshiyuki popped by to deliver vegetables, the man arriving and leaving in a whirlwind of activity. The day that Kenji restlessly waited for when the school week started once again, because it meant no teachers, no rules, no reading. The day when Little Tokyo abruptly changed from a gentle, sometimes sleepy, buzz of activity to resemble the sea.

And it meant that home was busier than usual.

It meant that home was, _once again_ , crowded.

(Toshiharu no longer had to look at his daughter to make sure that she wasn’t staring at her extended family with that, at times amusing, sneering pout—he could sense that she was getting restless, that she was irritated at the fact that her favourite armchair was already in use. So, with an almost silent sigh, he would reach over to drape an arm around her little shoulders, pulling her close to his side.)

Their routine had changed, and now most of Friday was spent in the kitchen, where Ayumi and her sister-in-law would cook, and cook, and cook. They cooked so many dishes the family didn’t have to spend that much time on dinner preparations for a few days, and it also meant that Sakura could stay by her okaasan’s side, because—according to obaachan— _she had to learn!_

Little Sakura was happy to simply sit on her stool and watch.

Watched as the white daikon radishes were used in many different ways. As the wild mustard was blanched for a few minutes and then cooled under tap water. As her okaasan and obasan—her pretty aunt who loved to test-taste every dish she made, to the point that she wasn’t that hungry when everyone was called to eat—took turns to grind succulent roots inside the suribachi mortar. As coated vegetables sizzled in oil.  As the cover of the rice pot began shudder and shiver, white foamy water dripping down the sides.

Friday was the busiest day of the week, the house smelling of cigarette smoke and onions, and there wasn’t a quiet moment to be found once the last member (the eleventh) of the Fujimoto family closed the front door behind his back. Every room was bustling with activity, and once dinner was ready, once every Fujimoto was seated around the large, oil cloth-covered table, Sakura felt her oncoming headache recede just a bit.

She was seated next to Kenji, and two of her cousins—unusually subdued—were to her right.

(To the cousins, obaachan would say: “ _Children must not laugh out loud and show their teeth. Chatter in front of guests or interrupt adult conversation. Cross their knees while seated or ask for a piece of candy. Or squirm in their seats. Listen, respect other people, don’t talk back, never bring shame to the family_.”)

She was seated next to Kenji, who nodded at the right moments and passed her some more rice when she made her whispered request. She was seated next to Kenji, and he would lean forward so that she was hidden from view, so that he was the centre of attention, so that she could happily eat in peace and quiet. Sakura was seated next to Kenji, because—even at that age—she seemed to know that he understood her quite well.

(Even as adults, he was the one who understood her the best.)

The oil cloth-covered table was the centre of activity, was so crowded that Sakura could barely move her arms, but she lived happily in her little bubble beside her niisan. Happily ate, and observed, and ducked her head when obaachan looked her way. Happily listened to her cousins’ whispered conversations.

* * *

 ( _Sakura would only realise years **and years** later that she should have cherished those dinners with her family. If only she had given them her full attention. **If only.**_ )

* * *

* _Imo [no Ko] o Arau Yoo, like washing [a bucketful of] potatoes_ – a Japanese proverb. So crowded you can hardly turn around, jam-packed, mobbed with people.

* _obaachan_ – grandmother.

* _tofu_ – a bean curd.

* _chop suey_ – a dish consisting of vegetables and meat. Typically served with rice.

* _manju_ – sweet pasty.

* _onii-chan_ – a Japanese word for “older brother” commonly used by women to address men who are slightly older, often regardless of their blood relations.

* _oyakoto_ – filial piety.

* _“A woman has no way of independence through life. When she is young, she obeys her father; when she is married, she obeys her husband; when she is widowed, she obeys her son.”_ The Three Obediences were a set of basic moral principles specifically for women in Confucianism. Confucianism is a system of philosophical and "ethical-socio-political teachings" sometimes described as a religion. Confucianism (as well as Buddhism) was introduced to Japan from Korea and China.

* _daikon_ – big root.

* _suribachi mortar_ – a traditional Japanese ceramic mortar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First thing’s first, I’m going to reread this chapter and edit it. I’ve done the same for the prologue and the first chapter. Part of me feels that I’ll never stop correcting earlier parts. There will come a time that I’ll stop editing old sections; for example, when I’m in the middle of this story. 
> 
> I love stating that this character and that character were real people. So, here goes: John Lazo was the father of Ralph Lazo, who was an interesting man. Probably a rare man, considering the ’30s. If you’re curious you can look him up, but that means future scenes will be spoiled for you. I can’t wait to develop the friendship between Sakura and Ralph (and between Sakura and other people, if you get what I mean!) Also, certain lines I’ve paraphrased from autobiographies, like Kiyo’s Story by Kiyo Sato. I think I’ll include a list of the books I’ve read for this story once the story’s done. Also, I’m not American, so I’ll make mistakes concerning the schooling system. I don’t mind those mistakes—they’re not important. On the other hand, I’m not Japanese, and I’ll make mistakes, probably create stereotypes, so I apologise in advance—do correct me, but I must say that I use autobiographies (written by Japanese-Americans) as a reference.


	4. Ame Futte Ji Katamaru

**Timeline:** 1913 to 1920, we get to know Ayumi Fujimoto (nee Ito) – Sakura Fujimoto’s mother. This takes place before Rei Fujimoto arrives in 1921.

* * *

The year that Ayumi turned twenty-four was unforgettable.

All because of two things: before, after.

Before: she was young, as carefree as she could be, and hoped that her busy days as the local midwife would stay the same, forevermore. The _before_ , you see, was what had been, what Ayumi had wanted for the rest of her life. Everything that she would yearn for.

After: she was young, not as carefree as she could be, and hoped that the unusual stranger who was her husband wouldn’t force himself on her the moment they were alone. The _after_ , on the other hand, was her life the moment her father had decided that she would become a wife.

* * *

Her father was a busy man ( _there he goes again,_ was a frequent thought most people had) who prattled endlessly to any willing ear (his high-pitched voice was a sound that would stay with Ayumi until her dying day). He was known in their community for being everywhere, having the last word in a conversation, and for his hands.

His left hand would frequently rise then fall, rise then fall (on and on and on), resting on his thigh before launching for his dry scalp. _Scratch, scratch, scratch_ , his dirty nails would rake across his head, from his receding hairline all the way to his freckled neck. His right hand, though? That hand was constantly holding onto a whip that went everywhere with him: to his futon when he went to sleep, to the river where he liked to fish, to the privy when he relieved himself.

Her father was a peculiar man.

A man set in his ways, but a man who didn’t hesitate to send Ayumi to a midwifery school when she started mumbling about possibilities and opportunities. A man set in his ways, but a man who craved attention and praise, because _your daughter’s doing well as a midwife,_ because _no one else was as dedicated as your daughter._ Ayumi was an important pillar in the community, and so was her father—according to him, you see.

But time passed, and more babies were successfully born, and more praise was thrown about; then, Ayumi’s father eventually (annoyingly) remembered the fact that he was a man set in his ways. This meant that he realised Ayumi was about to turn twenty-four.

Twenty-four was a fine age, a fine number, but he realised, you see, that his daughter was getting old and was _not_ getting married, for Ayumi refused his hastily arranged meeting with the baishakunin, the matchmaker. For Ayumi shook her head stubbornly (they were alike in that regard) and announced that she had plans.

Her father didn’t ask about her plans, didn’t listen to her, and declared that she would get married as soon as she could, for he, you see, couldn’t stand the embarrassment of an old, unwed daughter. They argued (a frequent occurrence), they fought (in whispers), and eventually, he told Ayumi that she couldn’t return. (Which made her bloodshot eyes widen, then narrow hatefully.) Eventually, he also told her, “Ame futte ji katamaru.”

_Rain firms the ground._

_Adversity builds character._

_The more challenges successfully met, the stronger a relationship becomes_.

His words signalled the end of a chapter, the start of a new one.

So, Ayumi boarded a ship (she had no choice), set out for the Gold Mountain (home was now lost to her), and her father was promptly forgotten by the community. Her father, once again, became that strange man with the whip.

* * *

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 _(“How could he?”_ Ayumi would frequently hiss to herself—would frequently curse her father—before bending over a bucket. Her stomach didn’t agree with the sea, with the rocking motions of the ship, and she would never agree with the husband who would be waiting for her in San Francisco.

She was determined.

She was stubborn.)

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.

* * *

Toshiharu Fujimoto (her husband, _oh she **wouldn’t** get used to that_) was a strange man who tried too hard to fit in with the hakujin ( _why, just why?_ she would frequently lament). That was the first thing that she noticed about the stranger she was tied to. Toshiharu tried too hard, and that meant that he asked her to walk next to him, insisted that she change her clothing (one of her last ties to Nihon) to more suitable western-style outfits.

But he was gentle. A bit awkward. Hoarded books and was dedicated to learning more languages, though he wasn’t as dedicated to climbing the hierarchy at work. He was, she realised in the first few weeks of her new life, simply good.

Too good.

She wondered if he had a temper.

Part of her wanted him to have a temper because she needed one characteristic, just one, for her to hate. To despise. (He did have a temper, she would eventually discover, but he kept himself tightly under control.) But she couldn’t hate him, because he was thoughtful and considerate, because he took care of his brother as well as the apartment they were sharing.

_But no one could be that good!_

So, for the first few weeks of her new life, Ayumi felt on edge.

Felt unsure. Bottled the curse words she would normally unleash upon the world with relish. (Another trait she had in common with the man she used to call her father.) But she was polite. Did what was expected from her. (Where else could she go?) Didn’t voice her desires (to go home) or her needs (to continue her work as a midwife, a sanba—it was her calling, simple as that). So, Ayumi forced herself to accept her role as a wife.

But a puddle of water, an armful of groceries, and poor balance meant that Ayumi ended up sprawled across the floor, cursing with relish. She expected, well, she wasn’t sure what she had been expecting from the Fujimoto brothers, but the hand—“ _Let me help you up, wife”_ —offered to her had been unwanted.

Ayumi knew what she desired, needed, and Toshiharu was good, kind, so very thoughtful, but he didn’t make her heart skip a beat. (Other immigrant women occasionally whispered about desire, duty, but never discussed their happiness, and Ayumi never asked, _but are you happy?_ ) She knew she could make Toshiharu happy, but she refused to keep even a sliver of bliss for herself.

The man she used to call her father had always lamented her too-stubborn, too-rigid nature. But that was Ayumi, through and through; that was her core, her being, and she refused to lose herself to an unwanted marriage. And so? And so she pretended: smiled demurely, acted as if the angry flush of her cheeks meant _passion_ , and told sweet, sweet lies that made Toshiharu’s eyes crinkle at the corners.

Ayumi Ito—no, _Fujimoto_ —knew how to pretend, how to stay calm in the delivery room, and of course, she knew how to be kind (like Toshiharu), dutiful and warm (again, like Toshiharu) when, inside, she yearned to be alone.

To be alone. That was what she had wanted _before_ , before her twenty-fourth birthday, to do what she loved but also to be left alone when her job was done. She was a simple woman, content with a simple life. But she was also a simple woman who hated being forced into a corner. She wasn’t meant to be a wife, but the fear of community scrutiny, of the unknown beyond the walls of the apartment, compelled her to swallow her pride.

In a different life, however, in a different life Toshiharu could have been a good friend, but it wasn’t meant to be. (She was determined. She was stubborn.) But … Toshiharu surprised her, Toshiharu helped her, Toshiharu easily agreed when she asked to continue her work as a sanba, and one cold, rainy day when they were abed, Ayumi asked herself _why?_

Why didn’t her husband’s touch make her heart skip a beat? Why did her palms stay dry? Why didn’t butterflies assault her stomach? (One of her tentative friends from the local sanba association adored the hakujin’s romance novels and would translate a few paragraphs for any willing ear. Ayumi tried to convince herself that she wasn’t a willing ear.) Her questions remained unanswered, even when Toshiharu gushed about her to his brother, exclaiming that she was a superb sanba, that she had completed her training at a Red Cross hospital in Tokyo.

That she was a wonderful wife.

Ayumi wondered if she would ever receive punishment because of her deceit.

* * *

For a few months, all Ayumi knew was her work. Sterilized gauze, sheets, bandages. Picking up her scrub brush, again, again, again, to clean her hands. Checking her black bag, once, twice, thrice, just to be sure that she had everything important. Mentally repeating everything she knew on anatomy, hygiene, and sanitation.

(Before she had gotten her first client, she had to pass an examination for a state license—Toshiharu had been at her beck and call when she had been busy with preparations.)

Then, there were the home visits and caregiving. Providing clients with a hara obi, a pregnancy sash; which called on an invisible spiritual power, and kept the baby in position. Accepted invitations to attend special ceremonies for babies—the anniversary for the hundredth day after birth or even the naming ceremony.

The monthly sanba association gatherings lifted her shoulders and provided comfort. There, Ayumi met many women (members of her community dominated midwifery in Los Angeles) who, like her, worked as independent practitioners. There, Ayumi socialised and discussed deliveries, because they all were proud of their work, because the community held them in high regard.

(While most considered midwifery a respectable healthcare occupation, others didn’t share the same sentiment: they felt that delivering babies was lowly, unclean, and only appropriate for social outcasts. The reality was that the sanba both preserved and changed culture, since they were a key source of income for households traditionally headed by men.)

There, Ayumi was tentatively making friends, who made her laugh _—“I hadn’t expected a baby to come out there.”_ —and unexpectedly trusted her with their burdens _—“The man I met in San Francisco was much older, much older than expected.”_ Friends who complained about clients insisting that they give birth in the traditional squatting position instead of lying on their backs. Who helped her navigate the complex social structure of America and pointed out businesses that would welcome any customer.

They were her support system when Ayumi realised she was pregnant with her first child.

For a few months, all Ayumi knew was her work, but then she remembered Toshiharu and Toshiyuki (as well as his picture bride who was expected to arrive in San Francisco in a while, _oh his wife wouldn’t be disappointed with his age or appearance_ ) and she wondered if they would have to vacate their apartment, because … because the family would be welcoming their newest, smallest member the very next year.

(She did, truly did, want a little house with a porch somewhere in the enclave.)

In the end, a friend from the sanba association and Ayumi’s sister-in-law (it was clear for all to see that Toshiyuki pleased the woman) helped Ayumi through her own delivery—her first and also, in the future, her second—as well as everything that came after. For a few weeks, Ayumi could only think of her child, her future, her son. _Her son_. Loud, wailing. Constantly frowning.

The first few weeks of Kenji’s life made her question her feelings or rather her lack of feelings regarding her husband. It was when he took little Kenji from her tired arms and deposited himself next to the crib that a voice, which belonged to one of her sanba friends, would whisper in her ear: _“My husband is a Meiji man. Won’t even glance at housework or childcare.”_

Her heart was strange, but it had more than enough room for Kenji and, later, Sakura.

Ayumi did love (occasionally) grumpy Kenji, but she adored (mostly) silent Sakura. She made sure that her children were together; playing together, eating together, and resting together. She made sure to remind Kenji to take care of his little sister, to love and protect her, all because of one thing: if something would ever happen to her or Toshiharu, then hopefully ( _hopefully_ ) Kenji would take Sakura in. Would encourage Sakura to follow her heart and achieve whatever it was that she desired, needed, from life.

* * *

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_(Toshiharu would pull Ayumi into his arms, rock them slowly side-to-side as the radio serenaded them, and Ayumi felt comfortable. Felt her shoulders dropping, her eyes drooping, and wondered if her husband was in love with her.)_

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* * *

 _Please, at least let me love him_ , Ayumi thought as Toshiharu dipped his head, jaw dropping as he accepted the slice of apple little (four-year-old) Sakura was holding up to him, _let me have that._ But her heart refused to listen, and she eventually told herself, convinced herself, that their relationship would be fine. She cared for him, that was enough.

 _“Let’s build a life here, together?”_ her husband had asked her, years and years ago, and they had done exactly that.

They were husband and wife; they cared for their children, helped each other out around their home (their little house with a porch), and Toshiharu still bought punnets of fruit for them. Their relationship was comfortable, easy, and Ayumi … was content. To sit next to him as they listened to the radio, to stroll around aimlessly with him in the local park, to go with him to the Nishi Hongwanji Buddhist Temple, to hear his voice early in the morning when he found her asleep at the kitchen table.

Her life was peaceful.

“ _Thank you,_ ” Toshiharu whispered to a smiling Sakura who forked another slice of fruit and, this time, offered it to Ayumi. As Ayumi accepted the offering, Toshiharu sat back in his seat and declared, _“I’ll get going—”_

Ayumi watched as he puttered around, placing his dirty dishes on the counter. He mentioned _this_ and _that_ , small things he had to do at work, and then abruptly mumbled under his breath before calling out to Kenji that they had to _get going_. Her favourite son (Kenji would grumble that he was her only son) tolerated school and achieved decent grades, but every weekday morning was the same: a struggle, because Kenji loved to drag his feet while getting ready for the day.

Smiling mildly, Ayumi wiped Sakura’s sticky hands with a wet cloth. The moment her hands were free, Sakura slipped off her chair and disappeared under the kitchen table; various whispered sounds kept Ayumi company as she cleaned up the table, as she started washing the dishes, and as she said goodbye to Toshiharu and Kenji.

It was an ordinary day—as ordinary as any other day—and with a sigh (an ordinary sigh, just for the sake of sighing), Ayumi turned to wipe her hands and then turned to the old, weathered cabinet where she stored her trusty black bag. It was an ordinary weekday, and she had clients to visit.

The automobile had been wiped down, extra gauze had been collected, and Ayumi was just going from room to room, closing all the windows, constantly being trailed by Sakura, when she started coughing. It was abrupt, made her hunch over, and her throat was throbbing by the time she could stand upright, hand pressed against a wall for support.

Ayumi glanced down at her daughter, who was watching her closely, and tasted copper when she swallowed. She blinked. Blinked again, then raised her hand and inspected her wet palm.

The clock in the kitchen ticked away, _tick, tick, tick._

Ayumi lowered her hand.

Smiled at Sakura.

 _“Time to go,”_ was all that she said, then mother and daughter were heading outside, making a beeline for the automobile which gleamed under the sun.

It was a beautiful day, a little warm, but beautiful, nonetheless.

Mother and daughter settled in; the key was turned, the engine rumbled, and Sakura giggled, wriggling around for a moment before sitting still. She was like a cat getting comfortable. Ayumi did the same, shimmied for a moment, getting comfortable, then looked over her shoulder.

It was safe to drive.

But Ayumi didn’t drive. Not immediately. Instead, she breathed in, deeply, then swallowed thickly. She frowned and whispered under her breath, “Ame futte ji katamaru.” _Rain firms the ground. Adversity builds character. The more challenges successfully met, the stronger one of a relationship becomes._ She hadn’t thought of the man she used to call her father in years.

Ayumi inhaled sharply, then inspected her hand. Closely, as if she couldn’t understand what she was seeing.

Blood coated her palm.

* * *

_(Years ago, Ayumi had had a single, fleeting thought: would she ever receive punishment because of her deceit._

_Perhaps dying all too young was her punishment.)_

* * *

* _Ame Futte Ji Katamaru_ , Rain firms the ground – a Japanese proverb. Adversity builds character. The more challenges successfully met, the stronger one of a relationship becomes. Ame futte ji katamaru is often said to the bride and groom on their wedding day. In addition to meaning that bad experiences may actually be good, the expression admonishes young newlyweds that, for better or for worse, the ties that bind are strengthened through tough times.

* _baishakunin_ – a marriage broker/matchmaker/go-between.

 _* Gold Mountain_ ( _Gam Saan_ ) – the name given by the Chinese to western regions of North America, particularly California, USA and British Columbia, Canada. After gold was found in the Sierra Nevada in 1848, thousands of Chinese began to travel to California in search of gold and riches during the California Gold Rush.

* _hakujin_ – white person.

* _Nihon_ – Japan.

* _s_ _anba – “_ Sanba was the standard legal and popular term for midwives in Japan from the 1880s to the 1940s. It is a term that implies a specific gender, cultural, and professional identity—a woman, a Japanese person, and a modern midwife.”

* _hara obi_ – often translated as a maternity belt. A woman will start wearing a piece of cloth around her abdomen during the fifth month of pregnancy.

 _* picture bride_ – the practice in the early 20th century of immigrant workers (chiefly Japanese and Korean) in Hawaii and the West Coast of the United States selecting brides from their native countries via a matchmaker, who paired bride and groom using only photographs and family recommendations of the possible candidates. This is an abbreviated form of the traditional matchmaking process, and is similar in a number of ways to the concept of the mail-order bride.

* _Meiji_ – the Meiji era was from October 23, 1868 to July 30, 1912. The period changed Japan from an isolated feudal society to a modern, industrialised nation-state and emergent great power. Ayumi’s sanba friend calls her much older husband a Meiji man because he’s a product of a feudal society.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I corrected a mistake in the previous chapter, concerning John Lazo. I mentioned that he’s a single father to a daughter and son, but I messed up the timeline. Also, I have a tumblr for this story; occasionally, I’ll post previews and reblog photos I’d like others to see. It’s sakurafujimoto, simple as that. Once again, I’ll edit the chapter in a few days, just to be sure that I didn’t miss anything. Lastly, please take a few minutes of your time to leave a comment. It will be appreciated, so much!


	5. Yabu o Tsutsuite Hebi o Dasu

**Timeline:** It’s 1920. Kenji was born in 1914, his female cousin in 1915, and Sakura in 1916. This takes place before Rei Fujimoto arrives in 1921.

* * *

The kitchen table was covered in an assortment of articles from newspapers and magazines. Some of the clippings were older than the rest, noticeably wrinkled and already yellowing. Text of different sizes as well as fonts caught little (four-year-old, nearly five-year-old) Sakura’s attention—her index finger traced the sentences line for line, right to left, then left to right, repeatedly. To her left, Ayumi was holding up a newspaper clipping for her sister-in-law.

“ _‘Madam Kimura Here to Study Feminist Movement Which She Hopes to Promote in Her Native Land’_.” Ayumi was translating a heading, and Sakura—who didn’t understand most of the big words—knew she had heard that sentence before. Quite a few times. It was one of the clippings that Ayumi loved to pull out and read for others because it featured a woman from Nihon. _“‘Japanese Editor Claims That Her Countrywomen Need to Be Awakened to a Sense of Their Own Importance. Should Participate in Government’_.”

Sakura shifted on her stool as she leaned over, scratching at her ankle. Satisfied, she sat upright, then glanced at her only female cousin, Etsuko, who was sitting on her own rickety stool to Sakura’s right. Their shoulders bumped as Sakura leaned in, peeking at the picture book Etsuko was reading, but soon thereafter she was focusing on her mother once again.

Ayumi carefully placed the clipping on the table and then looked her sister-in-law in the eye.

She looked rather stern.

A few months ago, Ayumi had been standing in the same spot in the kitchen, with the same stern expression. Back then, she had been reading a different clipping for her all-female audience: _to maintain positive relations with the United States, the Japanese Government stopped issuing passports to picture brides because they were ill-received in the United States._

One of her audience members had muttered that there were allegations that picture brides were being exploited as prostitutes. No one had explained the meaning of the word ‘prostitutes’ to Sakura, and the woman who had used said word hadn’t received another invitation to the Fujimoto home.

Presently, Ayumi and her sister-in-law—Etsuko’s mother—were engaged in a rapid exchange. They gestured and nodded and shrugged and asked each other questions, eying each other closely. There was a moment of silence; then, lips pursed, Ayumi gestured at Sakura, who blinked owlishly at her mother.

“ _Sakura-chan’s American. She’ll have an American education, an American degree,_ ” here, Ayumi reached out to straighten Sakura’s collar, “ _she’ll own a house, one day. She’ll have a good job. A husband, if she wants that—_ ” Etsuko’s mother inhaled as if to speak, but Ayumi squared her shoulders and continued, “— _and children, if she so desires. She can vote, she can do so much in this country … things we immigrants can’t do.”_

Yuina Fujimoto, wife (to Toshiyuki) and mother to four children (Etsuko and three boys), pursed her lips for a moment before unfolding her crossed arms. She was a head shorter than Ayumi, who always ( _always_ ) looked down her nose at everyone (including her husband), but was louder—Etsuko would frequently remind Sakura that Yuina was loud because her younger siblings were rowdy.

Predictably, Etsuko looked up at her mother and then leaned in, her shoulder pressing against Sakura’s. “ _Mommy’s loud because—_ ” And Sakura dutifully nodded.

Yuina shifted her weight from foot to foot. “ _We all believed the roads were paved in gold, here in America._ ” She looked at Sakura and Etsuko, her right hand coming up to pat her curls back into place. “ _But we immigrants understand hard work. What needs to be done will get done.”_

Ayumi bent over the kitchen table, gathering all the articles to place them in a folder, and then sighed, quietly. “ _I just_ …” she paused, holding up the all-too-familiar article about Kimura, _“I want Sakura-chan to make her own decisions—if she can vote, in the future, then she can be the captain of her own ship.”_

Yuina frowned, and Sakura felt the hairs on her arms stand on end; for some reason, because of some strange urge, she had to look away, turning to Etsuko and watching as her cousin flipped a page in her picture book.

Something permeated the air, not a smell, certainly not, but it was heavy, and it made Sakura think of the time when her parents frantically whispered to each other, both assuming that they couldn’t be heard because they had retreated to their bedroom. For a short while, there had been an odd air between Ayumi and Toshiharu—

But Sakura was pulled back to the present by a harsh cough that ended as quickly as it had started. Etsuko looked up for a moment, then was promptly lost in her book once again, but Sakura, who had seen and heard her mother coughing, then bending over as if to make herself as small as possible, stood up nervously. (Her stool fell over with a clatter, but Sakura was blissfully unaware of it.) When her mother coughed, she always coughed up blood and that made the adults worry.

That made Sakura silently worry.

Predictably, Yuina grabbed Ayumi around the shoulders, then pushed down, forcing the taller woman onto one of the kitchen chairs. Their hurried movement made the articles on the table flutter—Sakura wondered if the clippings would take off, but she shook her head, dismissing the thought, and looked back at her mother.

Ayumi already had a crumpled tissue in her twitching hand. Slowly, she rocked forward and backward, eyes blinking almost dazedly. Sakura wondered what she was thinking, what she was seeing, and so she followed her mother’s line of vision but only saw the kitchen and an oblivious Etsuko. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Yuina knelt beside Ayumi, reaching out slowly to interlace their fingers. “ _Your health is more important than the possible future …_ ” She spoke in level tones but was the very picture of concern. When Sakura pattered quietly up to them, as quiet as always, Yuina reached out and pulled her niece into her arms. “ _Please,”_ her voice trembled under the weight of something heavy, unspoken, _“take care of yourself.”_

One moment Ayumi was unresponsive the next she was sitting upright, inhaling deeply, nostrils flaring. Her right fist closed around her tissue; her left hand reached up almost automatically, fingers combing through Sakura’s hair. Yuina, in response, tightened her hold on Sakura and squeezed, canting her head to press a kiss against her niece’s cheek. In the face of such open affection, Sakura tried to suppress a smile before ducking her head.

It was then that Etsuko realised she was being left out and quickly rectified that: she closed her book, placed it on her stool, but in her eagerness to join them, she kicked said stool aside—Yuina ordered her to put it upright—and so she did. Only then, did she fling herself at her mother (and Sakura, who was still in Yuina’s arms).

 _“Don’t worry about the girls,”_ Yuina assured Ayumi, who was rubbing her free hand across her fist, _“brother-in-law will make sure that they’re married off to good men.”_

Beside Sakura, Etsuko tugged on her mother’s arm and then wrapped it around her middle. For a moment, she wriggled on the spot, getting comfortable, but when she settled, sighing contently, she grinned at Sakura. Etsuko took Sakura’s hand and interlaced their fingers.

Sakura heard her mother inhale sharply, but Yuina quickly spoke over her.

 _“That’s the way it is,”_ Yuina whispered, and her arms tightened around Etsuko and Sakura, “Yabu o tsutsuite hebi o dasu.” _By poking at a bamboo thicket_ , she told Ayumi, _one drives out a snake_.

In response, Ayumi surged to her feet and tossed her tissue in the bin; in response to that, Yuina stiffened (Etsuko frowned, looking up at her mother, wide-eyed) and then let go of the two little girls. _“I …”_ she breathed, eyes quickly sweeping from Ayumi to the bin and back again, _“maybe the girls can be independent in the future.”_ She cleared her throat, then raised her head. _“But some things are set in stone … and some businesses still turn us away, even though we’ve been here for years now.”_ Her eyes were glossy with unshed tears, unshed pain. _“Maybe we should send the children back to Japan—”_

Ayumi sniffed. _“My children will stay …”_ she interrupted, both fists now clenched tightly, _“they’re American, and I want to see them every day until the end.”_

 _The end?_ Sakura thought, then looked at the picture book that was lying on the floor beside Etsuko’s abandoned stool, _the end of a story?_ She looked at Etsuko, who was still frowning, still standing stiffly, watching the adults with her mouth agape, and Sakura wondered if her cousin understood what Ayumi had meant.

 _“Alright,”_ Yuina breathed, reaching out for Ayumi who took her hand, _“Alright. What needs to be done will get done.”_ This time, however, this time the words shook and shuddered, on the brink of shattering to pieces, but Yuina swallowed thickly, seemed to gather herself, and added, almost offhandedly, _“Lunch?”_

 _“Yes, please!”_ Etsuko piped up, throwing up her hand as though she were in class, and Sakura nodded her approval.

When they were finally seated at the kitchen table for lunch, Sakura nodded as she accepted chopsticks from her mother, nodded as she pulled her bowl of leftover umani closer, and nodded when Yuina asked if the meal was delicious. All the while she kept her eyes trained on Ayumi’s red-tinged lips.

* * *

.

.

.

( _“We need to prepare the children,”_ Ayumi informed Toshiharu that night. She was in bed, blankets pulled up to her chin. _“For the inevitable.”_

Toshiharu sat on the edge of the bed, his broad back to her. He nodded.)

.

.

.

* * *

It was on a blustery Saturday morning that something out of the ordinary occurred: a familiar truck was heading down their currently not-so-quiet street. A giggling Sakura zig-zagged around a group of neighbourhood children, Kenji hot on her heels, hands reaching out for her, but then her eyes went wide and she came to an abrupt stop.

Kenji, naturally, collided with her.

“Ojisan?” _Uncle?_ Sakura asked absolutely no one. She was oblivious of her brother’s grumbling. _“Why is he here?”_ At four-nearly-five years old, Sakura knew—and she only knew this because Kenji had mentioned it rather offhandedly recently—that life was a routine, _repetitive_ , and routine dictated that Toshiyuki only came to visit on a Friday.

Kenji appeared by her side, adjusting his baseball cap. _“He’s not alone,”_ he pointed out, and he was correct—he was correct with most things, Sakura had discovered recently—for Etsuko was sitting in the passenger seat, waving rather excitedly at the siblings.

The truck pulled up beside them, and the other neighbourhood kids, especially the awed boys, stepped up close to press dirty, inquisitive little hands on the vehicle. Sakura, though, didn’t care one whit about the truck; her eyes flicked to and fro, taking in her cousin and then her uncle, her uncle and then her cousin, repeatedly.

 _“Good morning,”_ Sakura mumbled to her feet.

“Ojisan.” Kenji stomped up to Toshiyuki who had vacated his seat, slamming the door shut behind him. _“Good morning …”_ His greeting was far from cheery, but Toshiyuki didn’t seem to mind, since he patted Kenji on the shoulder before reaching up to tweak the brim of the baseball cap Kenji had been wearing day in, day out.

 _“My favourite Umpire,”_ Toshiyuki sing-songed, and predictably, Kenji grumbled.

Uncle squeezed Sakura’s shoulders and headed up the dirt path to the porch. Normally, Toshiyuki would pick Sakura up and deposit her on the porch, but perhaps he had forgotten their ritual, perhaps his arms were trembling with fatigue—farming was hard work, Kenji had told her with all the wisdom of a snot-nosed six year old—but the moment he greeted the little siblings, he seemed to forget that they were there. Which was unusual.

Sakura followed her family inside and didn’t say a word when Toshiyuki murmured: “Shitsurei shimasu.” _(Excuse my interrupting.)_ Didn’t say a word when Toshiharu pulled his brother into his office. Didn’t say a word when Ayumi called her (and Etsuko and Kenji) into the kitchen.

Ayumi was sitting at the kitchen table, weaving zori from rice straw. “Etsuko-chan,” Ayumi sighed, and she immediately put the zori aside, reaching out for Etsuko who eagerly walked into her aunt’s embrace. _“Welcome home.”_

Etsuko placed her palms on Ayumi’s knees. _“Mommy says there’s more than one classroom because there’s so many children at the school!”_

Sakura and Kenji exchanged looks. _School?_ But they turned around, almost in unison, when something heavy was deposited in the kitchen just behind them. Toshiyuki, Sakura realised, had left a suitcase on the floor.

Toshiyuki clapped his hands. _“I need to get going.”_ He sounded breathless. Then, he turned to Etsuko. _“I’m not saying goodbye. I’ll see you soon—”_

 _“Yes, Daddy!”_ Etsuko piped up.

_“—behave yourself—”_

_“Yes, Daddy.”_

_“—and listen to your aunt and uncle.”_

_“ **Yes** , Daddy.” _Etsuko took a step forward, arms lifting up, nearly standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Sakura, but Toshiyuki turned to Toshiharu, who was rubbing his thumb across his moustache.

Together, the two Fujimoto brothers left the kitchen, and as Sakura turned to face her mother, Kenji pulled off his cap, then tossed it between his hands. Ayumi rose to her feet, then guided Etsuko to the suitcase, which was—Sakura noted as she trailed after them—weathered and fraying.

 _“Mommy?”_ Kenji spoke one word, just one, but it was enough to convey his confusion.

Ayumi faced her children. _“Etsuko-chan will be attending school, here, with you.”_ She glanced at Etsuko who was swinging her upper body from side to side. _“So, she’ll be staying with us from now on.”_ Kenji immediately made a sound of acknowledgment. _“Be good to each other.”_

With that, Ayumi hefted the suitcase and walked with Etsuko out of the kitchen. It was when Sakura heard the familiar roar of an engine starting that she turned to Kenji who gestured at the doorway.

Sakura frowned.

Kenji shrugged, then explained, _“She’s staying with you in your room.”_

 _Oh._ He wanted her to follow them to her room. So, she did, and there Sakura found Etsuko standing just inside the bedroom with a cushion in her arms and her mother bending over an old mattress that had been placed on the floor. Ayumi was smoothing out a blanket, then tucking it in so that it wouldn’t get loose.

Sakura looked at her bed—resting in a wooden frame—then at Etsuko’s. Looked at her green chest of drawers—a swirling pattern of cherry blossoms had been painted around the knobs—then at Etsuko’s suitcase. “Um,” Sakura blurted, but she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what to think.

 _“It’s okay,”_ Ayumi announced as she rose to her full height. _“It will do for now.”_ She looked at Sakura, who still had to step into the room. _“We’ll look for a bunkbed, but for now it will be a little crowded.”_

Sakura blinked, then again, and again before turning on her heel and marching straight to her father’s office. There, she curled up in the over-stuffed armchair that she favoured. There, she could pretend that her mother wasn’t giving Etsuko her full, undivided attention. Her mouth curled into a sneering pout.

* * *

Sakura was still pouting the next day, and nothing could turn her frown upside down. Not her father, who was repeatedly pinching her cheek—she eventually swatted at him, so he smoothed down her hair and stepped away. Not her brother, who was waving a toffee apple and then her favourite doll under her nose. When he didn’t get the reaction he wanted, he too pouted but then walked away.

Everywhere she went, she saw Etsuko. In the kitchen, eating. In the bathroom, brushing her teeth. Outside, running around with Kenji and the other kids in the area. It made her skin crawl, but she couldn’t understand it and couldn’t understand herself, for she liked her cousin, and had allowed the girl to take her hand, had played with the girl when she stayed at Toshiyuki’s farm. In the end, Sakura remained in the office.

The temptation to leave the office became harder and harder to ignore every time her mother appeared in the doorway, casting her a look of great disappointment. But little Sakura was stubborn, and her skin was still crawling, so she only came out for lunch and then for dinner.

But something must have happened, Sakura realised that night as she tentatively dug into her meal, because a visibly downcast Etsuko was sniffing. Her eyes were red. Her cousin stared at her own meal for a long silent moment, and Sakura wondered if Etsuko hated white radishes—or even nappa cabbage—but no, she sat up with a flinch, as if startled, and started eating. Sakura looked at her parents out of the corner of her eye, but they were as focused on their meal as Etsuko and Kenji.

After dinner, Sakura didn’t retreat to the office.

She tipped-toed from the kitchen all the way to her bedroom (the floor creaked with each step) and then halted, a mere metre from her personal sanctuary, the second she heard hushed voices. Sakura stood stock still for a beat, then another, before leaning forward to peek into her bedroom. Her fingernails dug into the doorframe.

Ayumi was sitting next to a despondent Etsuko on Etsuko’s bed. “ _If you don’t like your new school,”_ Ayumi murmured, tilting her head slightly to the side, _“you can always go back to your old one.”_

Etsuko shook her head.  _“I want it, aunt. But …”_ She inhaled loudly. “ _I miss mommy, and daddy, and my brothers.”_ Instantly, a frowning Ayumi pulled Etsuko closer to her side. Etsuko twitched, then looked up at Ayumi, exclaiming, _“Mommy promised she’d visit on Fridays.”_

 _“She promised,”_ Ayumi agreed, a hesitant smile twitching across her lips. _“And she’ll be here.”_

Out in the corridor, Sakura shifted her feet, but then the floor betrayed her.

It creaked.

Ayumi and Etsuko turned to Sakura in unison.

She didn’t have the time to flee.

 _“You’re here!”_ Etsuko cried, hastily wiping her hands across her cheeks. She gasped as she hurried over to her suitcase, which had been propped up against the green chest of drawers. _“I forgot!”_ She extracted a little bag that instantly reminded Sakura of the bigger black bag that her mother took with her to work. Etsuko hurried over to the doorway. “Kore douzo.” _This is for you,_ Etsuko informed her.

Sakura blinked.

Then she felt something inside her unravel, then shrivel up, dying, dying, dead. Sakura wasn’t sure what it was or what was happening, but when she inhaled, slowly, surely, and then exhaled with ease, she found herself shyly looking away before accepting the gift with both hands.

 _“Thank you for letting me stay with you,”_ Etsuko added, grinning.

Ayumi laughed, delighted. _“My little helper has her own bag now.”_ She joined the two little girls by doorway, then turned to Sakura to pinch her cheek. Sakura didn’t complain. _“We’ll need to get you medical instruments.”_

Sakura smiled.

Slowly, it grew, blossoming into a wide grin that proudly displayed all her little teeth. She wrapped her arms around her middle (the bag was hugged tightly to her stomach) and squeezed. _“Thank you,”_ she whispered, absolutely delighted at her new treasure.

* * *

A few months later, after the New Year, Toshiharu pulled his children into his office. He closed the door, quietly, glanced at his watch, then returned it to his waistcoat pocket. Only then did Toshiharu ask them to sit down.

 _“In a few months my mother, your grandmother, will be arriving,”_ he told them rather formally. _“She’ll stay with your uncle.”_ Then, after a long pause, he added, _“We need to talk about death and what it means.”_

* * *

 _* Yabu o tsutsuite hebi o dasu,_ By poking at a bamboo thicket, one drives out a snake – a Japanese Proverb. Let sleeping dogs lie. Don’t court trouble. Avoid causing a commotion and preserve the status quo.

* _Madam Kimura, Komako Kimura_ – a Japanese suffragist, actress, dance, theatre manager, and magazine editor before WWII. Her work shaped women’s rights and women’s suffrage movement in Japan. She attended a suffrage march in New York in 1917, and Ayumi’s reading an article that was published in The Brooklyn Daily Eagle on the 28th of April 1918.

* _Etsuko_ – joy, child.

* - _chan_ – honorific used to refer to children and female family members, close friends and lovers.

* _Yuina_ – superior greens.

* _umani_ – root vegetable and chicken stew.

* _Shitsurei shimasu_ – Excuse my interrupting/I’m going to be rude. Used in various situations, also when entering someone’s house or room.

* _zori_ – flat and thonged Japanese sandals made of rice straw or other plant fibers, cloth, lacquered wood, leather, rubber, or—increasingly—synthetic materials.

* _cherry_ – the cherry blossom, in this case, is from the Sakura tree.

* _Kore douzo_ – This is for you. Used when you’re giving a gift to a close friend or other informal occasions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so Sakura’s a stubborn introvert who doesn’t like it when people encroach on her territory. I’m an introvert, and when a good friend came over to my place, a long while back, I felt irrationally irritated at his presence, even though I invited him! It was the first time in a long while that someone, who wasn’t a family member, was in my home. I wasn’t used to it.
> 
> So far, Sakura’s pretty quiet, and when she isn’t so focused on her mother, she’s alone. She does, at the age of four-almost-five, occasionally play with Kenji. Also! The rest of the Fujimoto family is slowly being introduced.
> 
> In the third chapter (this story no longer has a prologue, only chapters, I made that change because of AO3’s site structure), I mentioned that there are eleven members in the family. Toshiharu, Ayumi, Kenji, Sakura, Toshiyuki, Yuina, Etsuko, three boys, and then Rei Fujimoto, the grandmother. I didn’t want to toss out all their names at once because no one’s going to remember them. But we met Toshiyuki in the first chapter, and the grandmother only got a name in the third chapter, and now Toshiyuki’s wife and his only daughter have been introduced.
> 
> About this chapter. This one mentions the theme of death (WWII, yeah), medical instruments, school, independence, marriage, women’s suffrage (in 1920, American women could finally vote), and the fact that a Japanese man can no longer write home for a picture bride. Ayumi does have more thoughts and feelings on that, but I wanted to include that important historical event because it, well, occurred in 1920. I’d love to include or simply mention historical events as frequently as I can. But we’ll touch on picture brides again, especially when Sakura’s older.
> 
> About picture brides, the sentence about positive relations was taken from Wikipedia. The comment about prostitutes was taken from a book I read a while back.
> 
> Lastly, I decided that I’m not going to use certain words like okaasan, niisan, etc, outside of dialogue, so that’s why I’m using mother, father, brother and so on, when in the previous chapters, I used the Japanese words. I’ll edit the previous chapters when I can. Also, regarding Japanese words/phrases, I hope I used the Japanese phrases correctly so far.
> 
> Thank you for reading and let me know what you think!


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